


Marks Where the Ropes Were

by As Many Times as You Need to Hear It (idowritingnowiguess)



Category: Christian Bible, I know that joke's run old but I still think it's funny, Original Work
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, LLF Comment Project, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idowritingnowiguess/pseuds/As%20Many%20Times%20as%20You%20Need%20to%20Hear%20It
Summary: “Asmodeus? What's wrong?”“Nothing's wrong. I'm just sad.”
Relationships: Asmodeus/Samael, Original Angel Character/Original Demon Character, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	Marks Where the Ropes Were

**Author's Note:**

> I'll add notes later. Cope fic from 2 AM <3

Samael wakes up slowly, and he’s not entirely sure why.

Without opening his eyes, he stretches a languid hand across the other side of the bed. “Az?” he mutters when he doesn't find her. He sighs and blinks awake.

“Asmodeus? What's wrong?”

She's laying at the edge of the bed, facing away from him, with her knees drawn to her chest and her ears pressed flat against her head. She gives a short, superfluous breath through her nose when she realizes he’s awake. “Nothing's wrong. I'm just sad.”

Oh.

“Is it something's anniversary…?” It’s difficult to line up pre-Earth events with post-Earth calendar systems, but Asmodeus can still become desperately sad on certain dates.

“No,” she says, “I don’t think so.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“…Everything.” 

He reaches out to run a hand through her wings. They’re crooked, even now, and the feathers are burnt, of course—those metaphysical nerves were fried a long time ago.

“Come here,” he says, and she does, rolling over and leaning into his chest.

He drapes a wing over both of them, shielding them from the sun and painting them in filtered light. Albeit cliché, it serves as a barrier—there is the rest of the world, cold and cruel and strange, and there is them, here, soft and warm and familiar.

She sniffles. They’re not shaking sobs; just idle tears, the kind that come without explaining why they're here.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, trembling a bit.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Just… being… me. Like this. Waking you up to cry on your shoulder.”

“No. Don’t be sorry,” he says, almost automatically. “It's an honor and a privilege.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Asmodeus snorts. “What was that? Are you reciting poetry?”

He chuckles; it's a light thing that rumbles through her chest and makes her smile. “No, I just…”

He pauses. Language isn’t good enough. That this ancient creature chooses to come home to him? That when it all catches up with her, he is the refuge she chooses? That he is her home and she is his still inspires a faint sense of wonder every day. There’s no lexicon that could serve.

He kisses her forehead instead, and hopes that she gets the message.

She curls up to him a bit more, but stays firmly in her body. She doesn’t want to abandon its senses—the feel of soft fabric and skin and warm sunlight is what she needs right now.

“You should go back to sleep,” Samael says. “You’ll probably feel better when you wake up.”

“What if I don’t?”

“We can stay in bed the whole day if you want to.”

“No, what if…” she shifts even deeper under the covers. “What if this is it? What if I never get away from it again?”

Samael thinks, one hand playing with her hair. He’s not certain what she means, but he doesn’t want to let on to that.

“Then I’ll be right here,” he says, and Asmodeus goes back to sleep.


End file.
